Teaspoon of Crazy, Half Ounce of Love
by Kyla45
Summary: In which Harry learns that the ingredients for a relationship often involve a bit of psychosis. And it's the person who sees you through the crazy that you can count on, that adds that half-ounce of love. Threeshot. Perry/Harry, Fluff, H/C, Slash
1. Chapter 1

Hey there, how's it going? I thought I'd ease you into this because, well, the whole thing is pretty fucked up. And I mean _fucked_.

So I work with Perry now, I live in his home, and I generally mooch off of his entire person. But then, you already knew that, didn't you? Don't ask me why (because I really don't want to tell you), but I find myself craving his attention, even if he's yelling at me, and even if I'm tagging along on some stakeout and he's berating the hell out of me.

But anyway, that doesn't really pertain to this story, well, in a way, I guess it might...anyway. Jesus, I'll get right to it then.

I used to be a crook, you know? I'd gotten my friend killed, and within the next week I'd seen more corpses than I ever imagined I would. Hell, I even killed a guy, loading him with bullets with a bit of beginner's overkill, as morbid as that sounds, and then I'd killed another, sort of by accident, and then I was firing shots left right and center. Yeah, yeah, I was scared, I was freaked out; who the hell wouldn't be? But it passed and I was okay.

Even working with Perry, despite his insistence that his line of work was 'boring' in real life, I'd seen a whole whack load of dead bodies, and somehow, it just didn't bother me. Don't cringe away from the screen, _I know_, okay? It's weird, but I think I was desensitized or something. (Well, I have to begrudgingly admit that Perry's constant presence may have helped reassure me, but only a little!)

So, if you're sitting there wondering if this is going anywhere, I'll spare you the extra brain work: _it is._ See, I thought I was okay with it, I thought I'd seen it all, or just seen enough of it that it wouldn't ruffle my feathers anymore.

But my feathers got fucking ruffled.

It had been a case which started out quite unspectacularly, but I guess that's how these things usually start out, isn't it?

Perry had been hired by some wife to track down her husband, and man, that was nothing new. Husbands, especially husbands of rich wives, were usually adulterous; being the slimy little cheating bastards they were.

Only this guy had no trail, and I wondered if he'd ever existed in the first place. Sure, there were pictures and tax receipts, but we couldn't find him anywhere, and Perry had already exhausted all his connections and leads.

Finally, we decided (well, Perry did) to go and consult the wife once more.

So one bright, sunny afternoon we climbed the lavish steps of her mansion (oh yeah, sorry, forgot to mention, this gal was _extremely_ loaded, not just moderately rich) and knocked on the door. Here's the weird part - it just kind of opened.

We'd called and called, but there was no answer, so Perry figured something was up, and took charge in that awesome way he does - and anyway, we ended up searching the place.

Perry told me to be careful and to check the basement (it was actually a wine cellar), and just in case you're worried Perry had a momentary stroke or something, he didn't actually say 'be careful,' it was more like 'don't fuck up, idiot' but I like to entertain the idea that it translates to concern in Perry-language.

So this is where it gets messed up. I had flicked on the lights, and half way down the stairs the smell hit me. I wrinkled my nose, but I figured it was nothing, so I just ambled on, half tempted to whistle.

Perry sometimes tells me I need to stop being so dim-witted, and _sometimes_ I'm inclined to agree with him.

The first thing I saw was the wife, decked out in her most stunning jewels, wearing the most poofy, extravagant dress I'd ever seen a woman wear. It was sparkly and white, almost like a wedding dress it was so over the top, only it had subtle color to it. There were too many frills and it seemed like too much fabric for a woman so tiny, but it was still pretty, in a sense.

After noticing her dress, I finally registered the dead guy on the floor.

She was curled in a neat sitting position, her hands folded over her lap and the corpse was so close that it dirtied her dress.

So, if you're thinking to yourself 'that's what ruffled your feathers so badly?' don't be too quick to judge, okay? It gets worse.

By this time the smell was making me sick, and I realized that this guy had been dead for a really long time. I could only gape and try not to breathe, and finally the wife seemed conscious of my presence.

" I can't find my husband," she said dismally, staring down at what was, now that I looked, unmistakably her dead husband. I thought for a moment that some sick bastard had killed him and then dumped him here, and that she'd been unable to cope or something, leading to this little picturesque scene.

Again, I couldn't have been more wrong.

"He's not here!" she exclaimed, sounding almost fondly exasperated, only a vague note of something frantic there. "I just can't find him anywhere in this house," she laughed nervously, and her eyes were so eerily glazed that I began to get apprehensive.

She shifted slightly, and I noticed the glint of something reflective. As it turns out, she was clutching a large knife, the blood visibly dried and gunked on its surface. My apprehension turned into a sharp panic, roughly translated to a repetition of: _holy fuck, holy fuck_.

For some reason a whole number of other details started bombarding me; like the way the congealed blood was pooled around the dead guy, and the way she was practically bathing in it, the smell of greasy hair and human filth mixed in with the putrefaction of the corpse. _She hasn't moved from that spot in a long time_, I thought. Her dress, upon closer inspection, was speckled with blood all over, something I'd initially mistaken as a design. Oh, and the dead guy was barely in one piece anymore, and don't even ask why the fuck I hadn't bothered to digest that fact.

Then, the woman looked up at me, straight in the eyes, and grinned, her lips cracking. It was the type of expression that was disconcerting and utterly out of place, but still somehow suitable, too.

"He's not here anymore," she sing-songed, and then, in an almost delicate way, she started hacking off what was left of his face, her eyes fever bright. Jabbing, slicing, and all around making a horror-movie scene out of real life.

Okay, I have to admit, I was more scared than I'd ever been. She didn't seem interested in me, so it wasn't even like she posed an immediate threat, but I was so God damned scared.

I opened my mouth and called for Perry. It was, I guess, more of a scream, and maybe my voice was a little hysterical, but my feet wouldn't move and my fear was cresting.

The woman was laughing softly now, as she carved up her husband's face, dirtying her dress even further and making a gooey, bloody mess. I could see that she'd already ripped open his stomach; and it seemed now she was simply determined to make the guy as unrecognizable as possible.

I don't know why, but I think I started to cry, more heaving breaths than anything, and yet I still yelled for Perry.

She looked up one last time, her face a picture of frenzied, pristine disfigurement, but calm and smart at the same time. "You won't be able to find him, if I can't."

Her smile was like honey on barbed wire and her hand was distractedly gouging out his eye. She continued to stare at me, unfocused eyes somehow keen, and her gaze both curious and prying, lips twisting sweetly. _Not here, not here_, she chanted under her breath, her probing hand causing more damage in its struggle to rip the eye out, optic nerves and all.

Perry came running down the stairs, anger in his voice, but concern on his face (proving just how terrified my screams must have sounded) as he demanded "What the hell do you-" and then he saw the husband and wife and didn't say anything more.

He whipped out his cell phone in one hand, and used the other to pull me into his body protectively. Whether he meant for it or not, I followed his pull and then some. I later felt embarrassed by how I shuddered and clutched at him like he was a fucking lifeline, pressing tightly to him.

I was vaguely aware that he was steering me towards the stairs, and I heard him muttering on the phone urgently, but I didn't want to listen because then I'd have to hear the woman laughing.

"Harry," he said. I didn't want to look up or let go of him. "Harry, Harry, _Harry_."

He jostled me a little, and I looked around, startled. We were outside, and I realized that I was still babbling hysterically, shaking even in the heat of the sun. I felt like all my dignity, scarce though it was, had vanished. In a desperate attempt at composure, I untangled myself from Perry.

Unfortunately, that wasn't such a good idea. Woefully, as soon as I pushed away from him, my knees buckled and I'd forgotten how to breathe - yeah, I know, it's bullshit. He caught me, and there again, my fingers sunk into his flesh with almost painful intensity. He didn't seem to mind.

"You're okay, Harry," he said gruffly, his arms holding me up. It distantly registered that we were hugging, and I wanted to point out how unlikely it was for him to ever hug me, even being gay and all, but I couldn't get the words out.

I forced myself not to think about it, so instead, I whispered, "Home." The sirens were really close, so I knew that there wasn't any reason for us to linger. It wasn't out job to clean up messes like that.

"Sure thing, chief," Perry placated. He moved as if to disengage from me, but I stubbornly held on, afraid suddenly, deathly afraid of losing the contact. He grunted in a frustrated way, and used his stern voice, "Harry."

I shook my head against him. "Perry," I said hoarsely, "That was really fucked up." My arms tightened around him, and shit, I couldn't help it.

He sighed resignedly, and then picked me up in one fluid, swift motion. Somewhere, I felt resentful at how easily he was able to do that, and the fact that he was carrying me like a stupid bride was damn humiliating, but he was warm and I held onto him fiercely.

Perry set me down in the passenger seat of his car, and I actually whined, feeling cold. He told me to be quiet and quickly discussed something with a nearby police officer before returning. It felt like it had been forever, and I told him so, insulting him and telling him not to leave like a fuckhead. He mostly ignored me and drove.

When we got home Perry made me sit on the couch with a whole bunch of blankets while he made me hot chocolate. I was trying to be nonchalant, admittedly difficult after the way I'd clung to him, but the whole not-teasing-me thing, accompanied by the gesture of giving me warm things meant I must've appeared like a cowed dog anyway.

He sat with me on the couch for the rest of the day, and all we did was watch reruns of old cartoons, and I knew that he didn't even like cartoons all that much. I was a little cold (or so I like to think), so I scooted close to him, trying my hardest not to think about the way the woman had _laughed._

At three in the morning, after a late supper of left-overs (which I'd barely touched) Perry told me to go to bed. I didn't want to, I really didn't, but the look on Perry's face said there was no room for argument.

I stumbled to my bedroom, glaring at the dark shadows on the walls, _knowing_ that nothing was going to jump out and strangle me, but hating the shadows all the same.

"_You won't be able to find him, if I can't."_ The words echoed in my head, and I told them to go the fuck away. I was fine, I reassured myself. It was over.

Even so, when I automatically crumpled in on myself in my bed, I shuddered and groaned in discomfort, swearing because I was being such a pussy. I kept seeing her in her ethereal dress, covered in her husband's blood, prattling on like a lunatic while happily slicing up his body.

I can't remember when I calmed down enough to fall asleep, but I woke up later in quite the theatrical fashion.

Teeth gritted, making some inarticulate sound, I was writhing in my sheets as my eyelids flew open. I noticed a dampness around my eyes, and swore at myself, trying to calm down. I was rigid and tense, body tingling numbly with the rush of pounding blood in my veins as the breath rattled in my chest shallowly.

For your information, I can tell you that I don't care for nightmares. And by 'don't care' I mean I would rather sit through an episode of Perry having rough animal sex with a gorilla than have nightmares. Now, it didn't help anything that the creepy psycho had taken up residence in my head with her laughter, and it _certainly_ didn't make things better when, instead of her husband, she was cutting up Perry. I've no idea how my brain rewired to make that fuck-up, but it was profoundly jarring.

I struggled to sit up, upper body strength apparently depleted, and the effort left me panting, and I could feel the immediate headache take root deep in the center of my forehead.

This was insane; I'd seen decapitated heads, mangled corpses, and somehow I was still supremely freaked out now, because of one body, because of one woman, because of one nightmare. Truth is, it was probably because the mere thought of ever having to see Perry like that...to ever have to go through losing Perry...

"Harry?" Perry's groggy voice cut through my panic, and I tried to clear my throat, because it felt like a ball of fluff was blocking my airway.

"Wha?" I managed.

"Why were you screaming?" the question was dry and direct.

"'wasn't, fuckhead."

"Harry," Perry's voice was annoyed and exasperated, but somehow soft.

I refused to say anything, and I bit my lip to keep it from trembling. It was dumb, fucking dumb.

After a while of silence, Perry didn't seem to be budging, so I offered, "I can't sleep."

"Yeah." Without further ado, Perry lithely crawled onto my bed, settling down beside me, and nudging me aside almost roughly.

"Uh, what're you doing?" I asked, my heart stumbling for an odd instant of uncertainty.

"Sleeping."

"Well, yeah, but-"

"And making sure you don't strangle yourself in your sleep."

"Oh." I paused, because I was able to feel the heat radiating off of him. It was nice. "Okay."

I guess - and I know this is going to sound corny as hell, but I can't do anything about that - having Perry so close was really…actually… comforting. I started counting his breaths, tracking them as they slowed and evened out in indication that he was asleep.

In a disgruntled, almost meek way, I started whispering excuses. "Listen Perry, this doesn't mean I'm gay," I wiggled over to him, pressing my body close to his so that even our hips were aligned (resisting the urge to sigh in gooey contentment) "-so don't get any ideas. I was just a little scared. A _little_." His heat was seeping through my skin, and I couldn't help but want more.

"I'm just cold, that's all. It must be a gay thing...you're so warm."

I settled, breathing deeply, the spicy smell of Perry infiltrating my nostrils. I expected my sudden case of snuggle-attack to freak me out more than anything, but it didn't. He was so solid and safe, and I felt increasingly at ease, my bones practically melting.

"Don't make me go into a wine cellar without you ever again, okay Perry?"

See, I know it's corny, fuck it. Anyway, I didn't expect him to answer, I was just speaking for my own peace of mind, but he shifted so that his arm hung loosely around my form. I think I squeaked, though it was mostly just for show, because I didn't resist, I really didn't want to.

"Idiot," he said sleepily.

Okay, and I know you might want to whack your head against the nearest surface because of me, but damn, I told you it's not my fault.

My cheeks suddenly felt hot, and because I was so eager to be close to him, hell, because I _didn't _mind it, I began to feel uncomfortable. I'd never had a problem with being close to him before, but I'd never thought anything of it. Now I was thinking too much, and I was allowing him so close now. Well, actually _he_ was allowing himself to be close, and somewhere I knew this was a great privilege.

"You have to promise, jerk off," my voice was muted with embarrassment, or the tone that comes with pretending you're not feeling what you are; I wasn't exactly sure.

He hummed something, and really, it was a leap from his usual growls, so I accepted it as an affirmative and experimentally secured my hands against him. When he did noting to discourage my obvious plight for contact, I tucked my head near the crook of his shoulder, curling in his heat and feeling my muscles relax with every breath.

The next morning I had to pretend that I was freaked out about the tangled mess of limbs our bodies had become. I scrambled away, rolling off the bed and thudding to the ground in a big display.

Perry rolled his eyes and went to make coffee.

Nothing about Perry really changed, he still called me a moron, and I still acted like one. Nothing really changed, I guess, until night fell again. For some fucked up reason, I expected Perry to come to my room again, just to make sure I was sleeping okay.

Well, he didn't.

And you know what? That pissed me off. I wanted him in my bed (but uh, just for sleeping) First of all, I couldn't sleep, I was scared of my own blankets, and all I could think about was how I wished Perry was there grumbling abusive remarks…only…he'd have his arms around me and it'd be okay.

So, half way through the night, I shuffled to his room, trying to be quiet. I got as far as his bed when he sort of propped himself up and said, " Harry? What do you want?" in a disgruntled way.

I averted my eyes, feeling like a two year old. "I can't sleep."

"How is that my problem?" he groused.

"Yesterday…you…"

"Yeah, well that was a one-time deal. Fuck off."

I didn't really know what to say, or what to do without sounding like a desperate pansy, or you know, sounding gay. '_Please let me sleep with you! I can't sleep without you, I'm scared, oh Perry!' _Yeah, so not happening.

"Fine," I spat, turning on my heels peevishly. As soon as I was clear of his room, my pace slowed.

I got to my door, but swiftly decided against it. I went to the kitchen, rooted through the cabinets and pulled out a Jack Daniels. Good old Jack, he always had my back, unlike a certain someone.

I was slightly jumpy, so I didn't venture into the living room, and instead made myself comfortable on the floor, nursing my bottle and resolving it would be best to drink myself to oblivion and pass out. Easy fix to insomnia, I reckon.

Two hours later and I _was_ thoroughly drunk, but no closer to falling asleep, or passing out. Feeling frustrated, I gathered my courage and went into the living room, turning on the TV to the cartoon channel.

The cartoons freaked me out, so I tried the porn channel (which I'd gotten behind Perry's back) but there was some freaky dominatrix marathon on and that did not help matters at all. After flipping through the programs for another hour, and never actually settling on anything, I switched the TV off in annoyance.

"Fuck Perry," I groaned into the darkness, taking another swig of Jack. " Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Why had he been so…so nice if he was never going to do it again? Why would he comfort me only just once? Why did I want him to do it again? Damn it all, why, _why_ did I want…

Even though it was _clearly_ impossible, what if that fucking psycho woman had turned me gay? Hypothetically speaking, because, of course it wasn't plausible, but if it was, it would be, it would be…my face scrunched up…so not good.

"Harry," Perry's voice shot through my despair, sounding amused.

"The hell do you want, you heartless bitch?" I asked, trying to make my voice mean.

"What are you doing? You realize you're talking to yourself at five in the morning, right?"

"Oh, great observation, slick, you think I didn't know that? I told you, I can't fucking _sleep_." My words were a little (a lot) slurred and I think I was gesturing wildly as I spoke, though most of my attention was focused on squinting at Perry in the dark, so I couldn't be sure.

"You're drunk, idiot, go to bed."

Was he not hearing me? Or was I going crazy? Though the latter was entirely probable, and though I felt extremely loose-brained, it didn't stop me from getting angry. " I can't!" I almost shrieked.

To my surprise, he came and sat next to me on the couch, and he was very close.

"First off, stop drinking." He pulled away Jack, and my harsh voice gave way to a pathetic whimper of protest.

"Second of all, stop acting like a girl."

Okay, that was _it. _He wouldn't sleep with me, he'd taken away Jack, and now he was accusing me of being a girl? In a flurry of movement, I got half way up on my feet, and with remarkable balance, barreled into Perry, effectively knocking him over. We crashed to the floor.

"I am not a fucking girl!" I hissed in stuttering stops, keeping my arms straight while pinching his shoulders down, straddling his waist.

"I didn't say you were," Perry replied lowly, the dangerous look in his eyes telling me I shouldn't have just done what I just did.

Losing some of my nerve, but still on a buzz from Jack, I started babbling. " W-well I'm glad we established that, now I need you to help me establish something else, asshole. How am I supposed to sleep witho-without you?"

It was too painfully true, I realized, because I didn't want to dream about the psychopath woman, and I didn't want to dream about losing Perry. And it all boiled down to the fact that I needed the bastard, and I needed him now and he wouldn't help.

"Harry," Perry's voice was a warning, probably for me to just _stop_, but now I was pissed, and unfortunately, underneath my anger, I was desperate.

"You're supposed to be my friend!" I wailed drunkenly, ducking my head against his chest and squeezing my eyes shut. It was only because I was dizzy, you see.

I thought maybe I'd won, but next thing I knew I was sprawled on the floor by myself, and Perry was standing up.

"Friends don't sleep with each other," he said lightly, and I felt my face flood with heat.

"That's not what I meant!" I yelped. "I just want you to…to…" I felt pathetic, and I knew I wasn't making much sense anymore.

"Harry," he was massaging the bridge of his nose. "Just go to bed already, okay?"

I felt betrayed, I felt like I was going to _cry_ (of all things) and I felt belligerent. The best I could manage was an attempted glare as he walked away.

When he was gone, I grabbed my discarded bottle of Jack, and then crawled onto the couch.

_Fuck you Perry, I'm not going to bed _I thought harshly, sneering at nothing. As if that would really bother him, when I knew that it wouldn't.

It was almost seven when next I bothered to check. My eyes stung, gritty and dry, and my head was unbelievably fuzzy, my body feeling curiously light. By now most of Jack was gone, diligently drained in a long enough period of time that I didn't feel too nauseous.

I felt my lids drooping, and the last thing I did was slur, "Not going to bed," before I fell asleep.

* * *

"_You won't be able to find him, if I can't_," she hummed melodically, her starved, dirty face smiling.

I felt sick.

"He's not here anymore." She looked disapprovingly down at the mangled corpse, her words holding the tone of a reprimand.

I choked on the rancid air.

She carded her fingernails through his hair almost gently, ignoring me, completely ignoring me now.

Then, "He'll never be here for you again, darling."

I felt my eyes water and my nose tingle, but I couldn't look away, couldn't even blink.

"Would you like to help me find him? Maybe he's still here," she murmured, sticking her hand into his mouth, violently probing and digging deep.

"Stop it!" my voice was nothing more than a choked sob, my throat tight from trying not to breathe or cry or vomit.

"Stop it?" she asked slowly, deliberate and doleful, her eyes wide and innocent. I saw the giggle bubbling in her throat as her face spread impossibly wide with a smile, and when the sound came, the tinkling, chopped, satisfied laugh, I wanted to run.

She pulled her hand out of his mouth and then stroked his face, laughing politely all the while.

"He's simply not here anymore!"

She kept giggling like a child who'd received a new puppy, and all I could think was, _that's Perry, Perry, Perry…_

I realized I was hyperventilating, or sobbing, or both. I wanted to scream but my throat was so _tight_, and Perry wasn't here to make everything better and I-

I awoke softly with a gasp, breathing deeply.

The nightmare was slowly slithering away with every blink I took. Lethargically, I became aware that I was spread on the couch, one arm hanging down (still loosely holding Jack) and the other over my stomach. My face felt wet and I knew why.

I cursed, hoping that Perry wasn't awake yet and hadn't seen me, and I unconsciously pulled the blanket over my head - wait, _blanket?_

Damn it! There'd been no blanket here before, and only one person could have brought one. Damn it, damn it, damn it!

As it turns out, I didn't have much time to curse and swear and groan because soon I was running for the bathroom to puke my guts out.

* * *

I stayed in my room for most of the day, nursing my hangover with resentment, the confusion curdling in my gut making me more uncomfortable than anything.

When I was starting to see things other than white blotches, and my hunger finally drew me out of my room, it was midnight. My feet mindlessly brought me to the kitchen with staggering steps.

To my surprise, Perry was sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in front of him and a book in his hands. He glanced up at my arrival.

"You look you shit," he greeted.

"Thanks," I mumbled self-consciously, because I knew that he'd probably seen me crying in my sleep like a big fucking baby.

I walked to the cupboard, intending to get a pop tart, but Perry casually said, "There's a bowl of mac and cheese in the microwave."

My mind stuttered to a stop, and all awkward tidings were abruptly forgotten. "Your homemade stuff?"

Perry looked mildly insulted that I would suggest otherwise, or God forbid, that he would serve me Kraft Dinner or something. "Of course, moron."

When I first started living with him, it didn't take long to find out he could cook. On the day he'd first made his mac and cheese, well, you can probably guess that it was love at first bite.

"Thanks," I said again, only this time with more sincerity.

I was grateful, maybe feeling a little childish, but grateful all the same.

So with my mac and cheese reheated, I sat at the table, eating like a starved person. After some big mouthfuls, I tired to make conversation. Small talk, yes, as much as I loathed that, but I was done acting like a complete push over. I was determined to pretend like nothing had happened, because that's what people did.

"Shut it, I'm trying to read."

Well, that hadn't worked as well as I'd hoped.

So we sat there in complete silence, except for my chewing and his page turning. As uncomfortable as I felt, I was still glad he was around. Damn it, like a _push-over_.

Soon I was finished and just sitting there blankly. Perry looked content to be reading, and after a while, I opted for some of the coffee he'd made, even though it was nearly 1AM in the morning. There was no way I wanted to sleep anyway.

Though even as I sipped my coffee, I was feeling the after effects of Jack from the night before, and the result of not sleeping properly. I glanced up at Perry, who as of yet hadn't even yawned.

"Aren't you tired?" I muttered, propping myself up with my hand on my cheek. I was blissfully full, too, and maybe my eyelids were drooping a bit.

Perry raised his eyebrows at me from over his book. "I got enough sleep last night."

My cheeks felt hot and I looked away. "Good for you."

Another hour passed by, followed by another, followed by two and half cups of coffee and two trips to the bathroom. I was starting to get annoyed and sleepy, and Perry just sat there reading his stupid book.

Now I was cushioning my head in folded arms, willing my eyes not to close.

Damn coffee wasn't working, I mean, what the hell was it? Decaf?

I tried to settle for looking at Perry (who was very much not dead right now) and draw comfort from the way his chest was rising and falling. Anything to distract me from how much I really wanted to sleep.

At first I thought it was great that Perry was still up, looking alert and awake, because then I wouldn't have to worry about sleeping and he'd still keep the nightmares away. But now I was fucking nodding off and my brilliant concept was shot to hell. It wasn't going to work if I feel asleep before him!

I hated Perry, damn it, all I wanted was to sleep in a bed. All I wanted was to have him close and snug. Stupid Perry, stupid, stupid…

"Aren't you tired, moron?" Perry's voice cut through the silence, directing my own question back at me.

I tried to glare at him, but couldn't quite manage it. I closed my eyes (in annoyance!) and said, " No." My voice was, pathetically enough, hoarse and lethargic.

"Really."

"Mmm."

I was asleep in a heartbeat.

Lucky for me, Perry attempting to carry me and then lower me slowly into my bed was jostling enough to rouse me. As soon as I realized what was going on, I forced my body into action and clutched at him as tightly as I could, my upper body suspended awkwardly off the mattress, and my fingers hurting because of how tight they curled.

"You're staying here," I hissed groggily, my words bumping into one another, lips numb and searching for the right pronunciations. I was briefly alarmed by the candor of my words, but couldn't be bothered to analyze that.

"Harry," he sighed. "I'm not staying here, you have to get over this."

This was maybe the most he'd addressed the subject of my little meltdown, and he was being kind about it (well, he wasn't being a complete dick, in other words). My hands tightened their hold on his shirt.

"I will," I assured, not letting go, pleading with my eyes because there was no way in _hell _I would voice this, I mean I'd said enough incriminating, fuck-dumb things already. It was bad enough that I really wanted to touch him, that I needed to touch him, but it would be worse if he wouldn't let me.

I bit my lip; because damn, I was so far gone I might as well be hanging out at gay bars, this was _horrible. _There was no nice way of putting it anymore, in my addled brain; I wanted him wrapped around me and holding me together.

Perry looked at me for a long moment, and then frowned.

"No." It was the firm answer to my pathetic entreaty, the one he could obviously divine even though I didn't say it.

I felt like squirming. He pried my hands off of him, and his touch was too brief. I felt my cheeks get hot, and my brows furrowed in agitation.

He didn't leave right away, and somewhere I hoped he might change his mind and stay, but all he did was awkwardly pat my head. "You'll be okay."

And then he was gone.

I thought about him a long time, about how I could barely remember how warm he'd been next to me, about how heavily reassuring his arms had been, about how strangely nice it had felt…

I couldn't remember, and as I tried to conjure up memories, somewhere along the way I started to make them up. To my horror, suddenly I was squirming, quite embarrassingly, as my body decided to raise the temperature.

There was nothing innocent about the touches I dreamt up, or about the weird, fierce craving that manifested in my restless limbs. There was no dreaming up how the imagined contact made me feel, as much as I bit my pillow telling myself otherwise.

What was worse was that I still didn't get a good sleep, despite my lack of nightmares.

When I was finally cooled down and tired, I spent a disproportionate amount of time staring at the ceiling, contemplating the best ways to prevent myself from thinking.

* * *

Five days (see: one bottle of Jack, five Ben and Jerry's Mint Chocolate Chunks, six boxes of pop tarts) later, and I was beginning to get depressed.

Five days had been enough for me to man up and stop freaking out over my nightmares. In fact, I wasn't even having nightmares anymore. I'd successfully stored the psycho woman somewhere I didn't have to look in my head, and if she ever came up unbidden, I fucking beat her with a metaphorical stick.

So that was good. But see, you're probably thinking, there's got to be a reason why I just said I was depressed, right? Smart reader, you are.

Well five days (see: two wet dreams involving Perry) later and I was beginning to figure something out.

I wasn't nearly as scared anymore; I was sleeping fine (except for…well) but there was one thing that hadn't changed.

I still wanted Perry in my bed.

I tired to rationalize, oh, I _tried_. But I wanted, really _wanted_all those things I'd had for one night, and then lost. His heat, his sturdiness, his…oh fuck.

This could only mean one thing, right? Logically (and damn it, this is _why_ I hate logic!) my problem stemmed from a clusterfuck of a ball somewhere deep down in me. I was justifying the clusterfuck of _whatever _(I wasn't going to entertain the notion of infatuation or a crush, God damn it, no I was not!), and that's all I'd ever been doing, justifying the hell out of everything. The reason I'd been so hell bent on Perry sleeping with me again was because that's what I wanted (plain and simple), because I liked it, because I liked _him -_ accordingto logic.

…

Well logic can go and fuck itself.

I'd just been scared! A pansy in need of comfort and…oh fuck.

I _still _wanted Perry in my bed.

I allowed myself one loud, forlorn groan, and then opened another Ben and Jerry's.

I scooped out a giant spoonful, and then another, and then another.

"Fuck," I muttered around the spoon.

* * *

**A.N** Harry is slow, it takes him a while to realize things, even though he's already mostly realized them. Harry is such a lovely character to jerk around and abuse. Oh, just a love. SO, this has been forever in the works, and there will be a part two! :) I'd greatly appreciate feedback, as I'm hoping everything came out mildy-believable, so do be a doll and give me your thoughts!

Much love to you all, and hopefully some of you stick around for part deux!

Kiss Kiss,  
Kyla


	2. Chapter 2

More and more, I was starting to realize that it was too late to employ counter-active measures.

One day, sitting on the couch and watching horrible soap operas, Perry had got up to get some M&Ms in a tiny little bowl. He had a thing for them, I knew, and when he silently offered me some, I couldn't help but gawk at him. When he noticed my incredulity, he smiled at me.

It was a cocky, annoyed, and completely ridiculous smile (complete with a raised eyebrow), and it took my breath away.

I realized, when I went out by myself, or Perry left without me on a case, I _missed _him terribly. I didn't just miss his presence, it was everything, even the insults. He represented familiarity and comfort and when he was gone it was inevitable: I became bored and anxious for his return.

I was fitful, draping myself dramatically across furniture, bored out of my brains.

And yet when he was around, I didn't feel the need to be at his side every second. It was enough to know that he was near, somewhere. Only then could I relax, feel that everything was right again, as it should be.

Sometimes I caught myself staring at him - honestly. There were probably stars in my eyes, or something, I mean fuck. The longer this went on, the more convinced I was that I was turning into a school girl, and I was just waiting to develop breasts.

I'd been spacing out, whether it was his eyes that distracted me, or the way his lips looked when he pursed them in annoyance; it could be anything, really. But suddenly a wave of heat would wash over me, and I would wonder what kind of noises he would make, how he would kiss, how he would touch, and all of a sudden I was sitting somewhere, longing and hating myself for it.

The more I thought about it, the more I remembered being curled up against him, and the more I regretted not committing every sensation to memory. Everyday, it seemed, I caught myself standing too close or leaning too near to him.

At night, I was either too cold, or too warm, and somehow I kept coming back to the notion that Perry would make it all better.

I don't know how I'd never been aware of this before, because the sheer magnitude of the clusterfuck I was in was too deeply rooted, and too intense to be casual or shallow. I guess all it took was one psycho woman chopping up her husband and one night to completely fuck over my life, and alert me to some things that I wished would've stayed in the damn dark.

In fact, it was one evening that I was struck with a latent realization (that I was probably putting off as long as I could anyway), but it had hit me unexpectedly, and it had hit me fucking hard.

Now, someone ordering me around would have normally made me angry, or maybe just peevish, but when Perry said, "Harry, c'mon, stakeout time. Bring some snacks," I was quick to follow his instructions, happy to go along with him, happy that he wanted me to come. I was excited at the prospect of being cooped up in a car with nothing but silence and him.

The rest of the night was interspersed with M&M eating and watching Perry watch the house some chick had ordered under surveillance. I didn't particularly have a key role to play, but Perry brought me anyway, and the thought sent a giddy tickle in my toes, shamefully enough.

Whenever I asked questions about who he was spying on, he would tell me to shut up, and so after a while I did, chewing lazily on handfuls of candy covered goodness. Some missed my mouth at times, and when Perry noticed and berated me, a minor M&M war had ensued, the small candies pelting the window until, with a strangled laugh, he told me to stop fucking around, and went back to filming the inactive house.

I dozed off at some point, and when he woke me up with a hand on my shoulder, I felt a disoriented disappointment when he took it away.

"Want some Chinese?" he asked. That meant we (he) were done for the night.

"Yeah, sure."

It was in that moment, with M&Ms scattered everywhere, and the heat on a little too high, gazing at a tired Perry, that I conceded to having a major fucking problem.

I had it bad, and I didn't even want to entertain what _It_ was.

But It involved Perry, and there was no turning back from this heightened sense of awareness. In the words of every drama queen, and every horrible actor: everything had changed. But then, it had only changed for me.

So in complete keeping with how mature I was, I got pissed and refused to adhere to It.

* * *

Harry had been scowling at Perry for two weeks; two weeks of nothing but snarls and grunts and tantrums that always ended with Harry muttering nonsense and then leaving in a huff.

To be honest, it was starting to agitate Perry, not only because of the asinine behavior, but also because it was clear, hell, painfully obvious that something was wrong with Harry. There was a very small part of him that disliked the thought of Harry being troubled enough by something to set him off for two weeks, and counting.

He thought back to the wife who'd murdered her husband, and couldn't quite repress his worry.

It was more than the moodiness, though. Harry started avoiding Perry at all costs, waking up later to take a separate breakfast, leaving under the pretense of grocery shopping whenever there was a lull in the day, and barely speaking at all, which in itself was highly disconcerting. Above all that, he started refusing to go on cases with Perry, passing on every instance of detective work Perry invited or asked him along for.

It was probably the thing that stuck most with Perry, because before he didn't even have to ask, and sometimes had to threaten him to stay home on the cases he felt were too dangerous.

The whole affair was starting to get frustrating for Perry. He didn't necessarily need Harry with him on the job, but he had to begrudgingly admit he'd become accustomed to the useless partner. Besides, the moron had to do something that constituted work.

He was silently hoping whatever it was would pass, but there seemed to be no end in sight. When he found himself thinking of how he missed Harry's company, constant chatter, and general bumbling existence, he knew he had to do something before he went insane himself.

So one evening, he decided he would try and do the one thing he really didn't like to do: he would _talk it out_ with Harry, or something to that effect, and hopefully get things back to normal.

He started off with a safe approach (anything could set Harry off these days) and gingerly sat on the couch while Harry was busy slaughtering Nazi zombies on screen, hands moving frantically on the Xbox controller.

"Hey, Harry, you can keep playing, but I'm just going to talk, okay?"

As predicted, Harry nodded, eyes never leaving the screen, and Perry was glad he was distracted.

"Lately, you've been acting like I've murdered your favorite cat or something." Perry paused, considering his next words carefully. "But I haven't fucking done anything."

Harry hummed, and Perry calculated that perhaps five percent of his brain function was focused on him. He ploughed on regardless.

"Listen, I don't really care why, and I'm not trying to have some stupid heart-to-heart hoping you spill all your problems and cry."

He let these words take their effect, but Harry was now frowning at the screen, his body tensing along to the sporadic movements of his fingers, and a glance told Perry there were hoards of zombies cornering Harry's character.

"Harry, seriously, pay attention, moron." There was a disgruntled cry beside him, and Perry saw that the zombies had easily overtaken the lone gunman. Then, Harry turned to him and demanded 'what?' with only a hint of his customary whine behind his voice.

Perry raised his eyebrows. "I was just saying, well, I'm telling you to get over whatever little drama you've got going on in your head. It's glaringly obvious and starting to annoy me, and if you think you can just stop working, you're wrong. This isn't a charity, you've got to _do_ something."

Harry narrowed his eyes, and Perry saw him stiffening, saw his hackles raising in defense - and of _what_, Perry had no fucking idea.

Frustrated, he rolled his eyes. "Enough with all of this, Harry! Listen to me carefully when I say I don't care, alright? Stop acting like a moody teenager and grow up!" He was being mean now, he knew that, but he felt it was needed. The iciness from the most warm-hearted, dopey person he knew was starting to really gnaw at his last straw of patience, as much as Perry was loathe to admit it.

If Harry was tense before, now he was practically a step away from rigor mortis. His jaw set, and his eyes hardened and yet he still somehow managed to look like he'd been punched in the gut.

"I'm sorry, okay?" Harry muttered harshly, not sounding apologetic in the least. "I'm sorry for it all, you asshole, and I _know_ you don't give a shit, but couldn't you have-" he cut himself off and then glared angrily at the screen for a moment.

"You got me killed, asshole," he hissed, before promptly stomping away.

Perry would have scoffed, _there he goes again_ just like normal, only now he couldn't help but think that whatever was wrong with Harry, he'd just made worse.

The little tantrum was normal enough, but the lingering note of hurt that Perry kept going over in his head, noticeable even under the layer of viciousness, signaled to Perry that he had somehow hit a nerve.

Heaving a sigh, he ran his hand over his face in a tired gesture. Not only was Harry no better, but now Perry was no closer to resolving it, or even knowing what it was he was trying to resolve. In consequence, of course, he didn't know how to avoid causing a further train wreck, because he didn't know which landmines to avoid.

It was all definitely weird, he decided, and he knew that this would lead to a headache later on, if it kept up.

Which it would, because if Harry was proven to be anything, it was consistent in his stupidity.

* * *

Instead of going to bed at a reasonable time, Perry decided to take up the task of slaughtering Nazi zombies, well into the early hours of the morning.

He'd never really been into video games, but Harry had somehow managed to instill an appreciation, maybe even a love, for shooting zombies and assassinating people as an occupation.

With a sigh, Perry turned off the console, the clock glaring the atrocious time at him, and made his way to his room.

In the hallway, he was first alerted to the presence of Harry by the shuffling of feet.

"Harry?" he squinted in the dark. "What are you doing up?"

The moron was rubbing his eyes tiredly, and mumbled, "Came to join two player." He paused, and then said in a hush, "I can't sleep."

Perry was immediately cautious. Was Harry having nightmares again? It'd had been quite a while since Perry had been aware of Harry having trouble sleeping, but he could remember all too clearly how frightened he'd been. He could remember the tight fists in his shirt and the shivering body. Worry and wariness straightened his posture simultaneously, and he resolved to be firm.

"Harry, just go to bed, okay?" he was careful not to ask why, or to be overly nosy. He just needed the moron to be alright again, to sleep.

His vision was slowly improving in the darkness, so he could just make out Harry squirming. "I can't." He sounded so pathetic.

Not knowing exactly what Harry expected him to do about it (though somewhere wondering if he was going to suggest sleeping together again) he sighed, looking to delay, to find some other way to soothe. "Why?"

Instead of answering, Harry shuffled surprisingly fast and closed the distance between them, until his arms were wrapped around Perry's neck and he was pressed close in a hug.

"Harry?" now this wasn't what he'd expected. Sure, Harry had been more touchy feely ever since the deranged scene he'd witnessed, and Perry had forgiven that at the beginning, even understood. But now…

He realized Harry was mumbling into his neck, "Please - _please_..."

"Please _what_?" he was losing his patience, and Harry felt uncomfortably warm.

Harry's hand tightened their hold around him. "Never mind, alright? Jesus, I'm sorry!" with that, Harry pushed himself away, and Perry felt a rush of chill air.

Gathering himself, he rolled his eyes, and caught Harry's arm. "Stop having hissy fits and talk to me, you dolt. I can't read your mind," his voice softened minutely, and he briefly acknowledged how badly he wanted to fix Harry's unease.

Though instead of providing comfort or relief, the opposite seemed to happen. Harry's voice hitched in his throat, and a barrage of words came tumbling out in a frantic, panicked tone.

"You, I want _you_, you stupid asshole. I can't sleep and I can't take this." He wrenched his arm free from Perry's grip.

It seemed like minutes were ticking by like seconds, and Perry couldn't quite manage to say anything.

* * *

**A.N **Oh, I think this is possibly the first cliffhanger I've really ever done. More to come, lovelies, and don't forget to leave me a word if you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

"Harry," he enunciated slowly. "Have you been drinking?"

There was a loud groan, and then an unsteady chuckle. "No."

Perry narrowed his eyes, stepping menacingly close to Harry. He brought his hands to rest on either side of Harry's face, and curiously, his breath hitched.

"What-"

"Are you concussed?"

Perry _felt_ Harry frown. "No!"

"Then what the hell are you trying to accomplish, lying like that?"

Really, it had been enough before, to have to comfort the idiot when he was sniveling and scared, but there was nowhere in his make-belief contract that said he had to deal with _this_, this teasing cruelty.

"I'm not lying!" Harry sounded incredulous, with hints of anger underlying his every syllable, but Perry wasn't buying it, he couldn't.

Instead, he easily let his classic, full proof, and safe 'oh, really?' expression spread over his face, not surprised at all when Harry glared, but couldn't say anything in his defense.

But then again, Harry has always been horrible with words when it mattered, so Perry should have been less surprised than he was when Harry boldly stepped forward and kissed him, with a desperate little whoosh of air that sounded like relief.

"There," Harry breathed deeply, stumbling backwards a little. "There's your proof, asshole."

Perry was, for all intents and purposes, flummoxed. He was incapable of processing that straight '_that was incredibly gay_' Harry had just bestowed him with the most awkward kiss in existence, and so for the sake of his immediate sanity, he settled for staring, hoping the question in his eyes was being conveyed.

Harry scowled. "What? Is it so hard to believe that you made me lose my mind?" his voice was bitter and derisive. After a short silence, the nervousness was permeating the air, coming off Harry in waves. Perry could see his posture slump, even as he opened his mouth to speak, his voice suddenly timid and breakable: "Do you want me to prove it again?"

Perry gawked, there was no other word for it. This wasn't even remotely in the realm of what he considered reality, and for a moment, he had to make sure he hadn't already gone to bed and was, in fact, dreaming.

But the longer the silence stretched, the longer Harry's muscles had a chance to tense and coil, and eventually spring.

"Fuck," he spat, turning on his heels. Seconds later his bedroom door slammed with a resounding _bang_.

Perry blinked, the noise jolting him out of his stupor, a level 4 induced coma of shock and disbelief, the likes of which he'd not experienced for years.

Harry hadn't been drinking. He wasn't drunk.

He hadn't hit his head, as far as Perry could tell. So, not concussed.

Perry brought a hand up to touch his lips thoughtfully. He realized he was gazing at where Harry had stood.

And then he laughed, almost surprised at the warmth in the sound. After a moment of wonderingly pressing his lips, he was, he decided, not all that surprised.

Jesus.

Harry was such an _idiot_.

* * *

I kicked my feet against the mattress childishly, half-screaming into my pillow. I pulled my hair and tired _really _hard not to cry at my own stupidity, and how much it _hurt_.

Stupid, stupid, how was it possible to be this stupid? Admitting to my stupid attraction and then going and kissing him? Then stupidly offering to do it again, in the vain hope that he might say 'yes.' I almost wanted to laugh, to alleviate the sting and really, it would suit how laughably I had completely fucked up.

Of course, why would he bother with me, why, damn it, why had I been so stupid? How would I be able to look at him again? I needed to go find a girlfriend,…or a boyfriend? My stomach churned at the idea of anyone other than Perry and I immediately chucked it. Okay, but now what? Even if this was all juvenile and pathetic, it was utterly humiliating.

What if I'd just wrecked the one and only relationship that had been good for me?

I bit back my groan, gritting my teeth and pushing my face hard into the pillow.

And here's the kicker, folks: despite everything, all I wanted to do was kiss him again, have him kiss me back, and it was pathetic. Not just moderately 'oh, that's kind of sad,' I'm talking about full blown 'so wretched Tom Cruise would throw me a pity fuck.' I wondered if this sort of pitiable behavior was innate or had to be developed.

"Harry." To my horror, it was his actual, unimagined voice that was closing in, and it was my door knob that was turning. I scrambled to sit up, trying to mentally calculate the best escape route.

"I'm sorry!" I said quickly, unable to suppress the impulse to squelch my eyes shut, terrified I'd ruined everything. But why was he here? I really didn't want to deal with any of it now. "Do me a favor, and just forget it ever happened, okay?"

"Harry."

"It doesn't even matter, not important. And you know what, I blame sleep deprivation, I've heard it's just as potent as alcohol when it comes to impairment. So, you can go ahead and _just forget about it_!"

"Harry!"

I opened my eyes to look at him, and he was smiling, smiling in such a lovely way that, in all honesty, I felt like jumping off a bridge because that smile shouldn't be able to make me feel like this.

"What do you want?" I asked defensively, cursing the growling whine in my voice. "If you're just here to gloat I-"

Perry shook his head, looking exasperated like he always did, but with something infinitely more soft smoothing his features. Really, my chest was swelling at the sight and I felt like punching a kitten.

He walked to me, moving slowly as though he thought I might scare and run off (which I probably would) and when he was close enough, he leaned down, his hands cupping either side of my face again.

I was forced to look at him, and I couldn't help the fear and hope bubbling in my belly, only the bubbles were fizzing and multiplying in a clear indication of fear. I wanted so bad to turn away and just escape.

"Tell me," he said, his voice calm save for something I couldn't place. "This isn't just you being sexually frustrated with no options and thinking 'what the hell, why not Perry?'"

I didn't trust my vocal chords, so I shook my head.

"And this isn't just a bi-curious endeavor that you will vehemently deny as soon as you can?"

I realized I was holding my breath, and with a gasp I croaked, "No."

"Well," his hands left my face and I wanted them back, I wanted them everywhere. "Prove it."

I blinked, and he straightened so he was standing and I was left kneeling on my bed, heart drumming so hard I was afraid it might give up.

Without hesitation, I pushed myself up, standing on my bed so that I was taller than him for once, and then I pulled him forward awkwardly and kissed him hard. A jolt went through my body when I felt him reciprocating, pushing back, and though it was a chaste kiss, my legs grew wobbly and I wrapped my arms around him, practically deflating against him.

I pulled away and I hid my head in his neck, rediscovering the skin there, the juncture of his shoulder, his clavicle. I breathed like an asthmatic with one lung, the embarrassment and uncertainty sharp and consuming. I really couldn't decide which I'd rather do: run away or never let go.

"C'mere," he said, arms encircling my back so he could lift me off my bed, and set me on the floor. I clung to him the entire time, refusing to let go, bombarded with everything that had just changed, solidly, for the both of us.

This wasn't a surprise kiss in an alleyway or hallway, it was expected, and it was mutual.

"Hey Perry," even though my cheeks were hot, I forced myself to speak. It was dizzying to know that I could have him all to myself, because he'd given me permission, hadn't he? And I wanted him _now_.

"Yeah?" he looked down at me as if he had no idea where I was going with this. Perry was supposed to be all insightful, and good at reading people, wasn't he? I was sure my eyes were dark enough to speak for me.

"Is that proof enough? Is it alright if we, can we, you know?…" my voice was tight with embarrassment, bordering on petulant.

It wasn't like I could just turn on the charm, or use some jaded pick up line. I realized I had no idea what to do, that I was sorely out of my element, and that I'd never wanted so badly before.

"What do you want us to do, exactly?" he asked, almost curiously, raising his eyebrow.

Shakily, I growled at him, though it sounded less like a growl and more like a whine. The glare I tried to pin him with ended up terrorizing the wall instead. I took a moment to mourn how much my manliness had deteriorated since I'd acknowledged that, well, I had it bad for a dude.

"Oh please, as if you don't _know_. You're such a dick."

"Asking nicely goes a long way," he simpered, the most infuriating smile accompanying his words. Good lord, I was not in the mood for this, though I'm not quite sure what I expected from Perry, I hadn't been betting on playful and maddening.

I growled again, but it turned into a sharp exhale when he slowly trailed one hand up my spine, and then along the exposed skin of my neck, brushing his fingers under my ear. When he leaned closer to kiss, I pushed up on my tippy toes to meet him, hands sliding into his hair.

The kiss was fuller, more thoughtful than any of our previous ones, but he pulled away sooner than I would have liked and at my hum of protest, he smiled.

I felt a little giddy, a little stupid, but a lot turned on, and he was frustrating the hell out of me.

"You're being cruel," I complained, stiffening suddenly as a horrible thought occurred to me, making panic churn in my stomach.

"You're…you're not just sexually frustrated yourself, are you?"

I realized that he'd never really said anything in regards to what this was. In fact, he'd barely said _anything _at all. Oh shit, and that was all it took to hate what I'd gotten myself into, and to hate the way my mind reeled.

I needed this to be more than a casual fling, I needed this to mean something, I needed him, oh dear God, I could not go the rest of my life wallowing with Jack, Ben and Jerry, I just _couldn't_-

Perry looked at me levelly for a moment, and then huffed out a sigh and grabbed my wrist, bringing my hand down over his chest which a swift tug. He maneuvered it until he was happy with its placement, and then held my palm firmly down. I felt a little ridiculous, with both of his hands pinning mine to him, and at the same time, all I could think about was wanting to feel more.

It briefly occurred to me that maybe he wanted the rhythm of his steady breathing to calm my own.

"Listen carefully," he said. "I had no idea what was going on in your head, much less that you-"

"Wanted to get in your pants?" I cut in, my attempt at humor failing at making me feel better.

"-were feeling those _special_ fuzzy feelings, I was going to say," he snarked testily, and I couldn't help the blush that colored my cheeks.

"You've had me pretty annoyed with your stupidity, but I was more annoyed that something was wrong with you, something I couldn't fix."

I was starting to register that the beat underneath my hands was not calming reassurance, but rather, a pounding which was strong and steady, and very, very demanding. A different kind of reassurance.

"Harry, you're a _moron_, and I don't even know why I put up with you," I wanted to protest, but he wordlessly told me to keep quiet. "Though it looks like, despite it all, I have a weakness for utter stupidity," he titled his head "So I'd be happy, if _you_ happened to have a weakness for gay detectives..." he trailed off suggestively, this adorable smirk tilting his lips lopsidedly because I knew he already knew the answer.

I surged forward, literally jumping him and nodding furiously. His words, which bordered on insulting, were maybe the sweetest things I'd ever heard. And yes, that's right folks, I wanted the fairytale, I wanting the wooing, complete with pink tinted phrases like 'you're a fucking moron.'

"It's the Cheap Trick problem," I said, urgently. We were squished together, and I could feel Perry and it was enough to make me a little frantic.

"Mm?" Perry was languidly kissing the nape of my neck now, sucking at my pulse point, hands simply braced against my waist.

"_I want you to want me_," I managed, with no little effort. "You see, we both could have said it, but we never did," I rambled. My voice caught when he nipped at my earlobe, warm breath teasing the receptive flesh there. Jesus, I hadn't known my ears were so sensitive, nor that it would make my blood heat up a couple thousand of degrees.

"I want you to want me?" he repeated, whispering in my ear inquisitively. "Good song."

Distractedly, I nodded. "Perry?"

"Mm?"

"I need…" it was peculiar, and almost made me think of porn, how breathy my voice was. The simplicity and emotion in the statement, however, made me think of poorly acted teenage soaps.

"You sure, chief?" Perry asked, even though his voice was a little huskier now.

"Mhm," I said, looking up at him as my resolve completely crumpled. I tugged him insistently towards my bed, and he followed, quirking an eyebrow. I scowled and once we were both sitting across from each other, I had no idea what to do.

It _had _been a long time since the last time I'd gotten laid, and it wasn't as though I'd ever been with another guy before, but this was still strangely daunting, and I felt like a fumbling virgin.

Though it shouldn't be this difficult, I wasn't sure exactly where to begin, and the combination of nerves and fierce longing was most definitely messing with my motor skills…well, my whole neural functioning, really.

Perry seemed to sense this, because he carefully pulled me closer and then started removing my shirt. As soon as I figured out what he was doing, I didn't even have to be asked to lift my arms, or buck my hips forward so he could pull my pants down, leaving me in my boxers and socks.

Eager and trembling, the cold air raising goose pimples all over my flesh, I stared at him wide-eyed.

"So, uh, I know how this works and all but I just, I'm not, I don't think I'm…" I trailed off, unable to continue. He didn't expect full out sex right away, did he? I wanted him so bad, but I wasn't ready for that. Besides, at the rate my heart was pounding, I was dubious about my endurance.

"Relax, Harry," Perry said, and he had the gall to roll his eyes at me.

But then he was touching me, both of his warm hands splayed across my chest, as if making sure I was there. He briefly made eye contact with me, obviously asking if this was okay, and I gave a barely perceptible nod. I hadn't known he would be so careful, and I felt a small part of my anxiety melt away.

His fingertips lightly pressed and glided, and even though it was faint and gentle, I found myself exhaling breathlessly. I figured, by any appropriation, that kissing would be good now. I hesitantly curved my hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. His lips met mine briefly, and then again, our mouths pressing tighter as his hands slid around to my back, stroking up my spine.

With a soft sigh, I leaned into him, hugging him close, and now his hands were wandering. One tickled up my side, while his other explored the dip in my shoulder, the curve of my neck, alternating between rubbing circles and tracing intricate patterns that lingered even after his touch was gone.

My eyes flew open (I don't know when they'd closed) when I felt his fingers on my scars - the relatively fresh bullet wounds on my chest and arm. The puckered, white skin was oddly sensitive, and I hissed through my teeth a little.

Then both of his hands brushed down my front slowly, dragging against my nipples, and I bit my lip, surprised at the abrupt jolt.

"Perry," I gulped, my hands flying to fist the sheets. "Stop it."

He looked at me sharply, and said, "What, too gay for you?" His voice seemed oddly self-conscious, and I knew he'd misunderstood.

"No, no, you don't get it," I was trying to think, really, I was. "I can't…" I laughed a little, nervously, the sounds interlaced with cracks in my voice. "Too slow, I need more," I said in broken English (or: too turned on to speak properly), my voice hoarse and my eyes averted.

"Wouldn't want to rush, though," he said conversationally, as though chatting about the pacing of sex wasn't anything unusual, especially while in the middle of getting off. At least there was a hint of a smile in his voice, which was warmer now. "Slow and steady, and all that."

I scowled at him, my cheeks puffed out in something horrendously resembling a pout. "I know _that_! But I don't want slow and steady, damn it, I want you-"

He must have decided that he'd heard enough, because he kissed me hard, my open mouth optimal for quick tonguing. I really had no complaints and his satisfied hum resounded through my entire body, making me shiver. I vaguely wondering how I'd ever again settle for mint chocolate chip when I could have the taste of Perry.

Our bodies became crowded together, and I felt a tension gathering in my blood, making me strive for more. The ridiculous fantasizing had built up, and now that I was out of dream-land, and grounded to reality by the solid feel of him, it was hard to stay focused or sane. Or coherent. If my insistent hard-on had anything to say, I knew I wasn't going to last long, so he could just screw his slow and steady bullshit.

I pulled back from his mouth, and narrowed my eyes at him. "Your turn," I said pointedly, tugging at his shirt. I was practically naked, and he was still fully clothed, which was grossly unfair and not to mention, frustrating as hell.

By the time I'd assisted in getting his shirt off, my hands cautiously moved forward, mimicking his movements, and at the same time pulling him closer so I could reach his lips.

My fingers found his scar, along with the surgical ones he'd been left with, and my stomach tied itself in a knot of apprehension. He'd been protecting me, after all, and it had been so _close…_ Until he groaned a little, I hadn't realized how hard I was tugging his hair.

It turned filthily French very fast, probably good enough for a porno scene. With increasing tenacity, my impatience grew, even as our tongues were exchanging thrusts. My arms wrapped around him, and I clutched tightly, vaguely appalled that my breath was escaping in little whimpering hisses. My hips shallowly rocked forward, but Perry seemed persistent with his whole mentality of _slowly_, and never aided me in my plight for contact.

Instead, his hands lazily felt up and down my back, his touch leaving everything shivery and tingling. He left little kisses, interspersed with teeth and licks, along my jaw, and a sensitive spot behind my ear.

Blindly, I tugged him back for a bruising kiss, gasping into his mouth. His touch wandered lower, until he was gripping my ass, hitching my hips forward a little. I wanted to hiss 'yes' but he soon abandoned that cause, and trailed back up my spine, the sensation enough to make me arch.

It was clear what he was doing, and I didn't like it one bit. After all, I could feel he was just as turned on as I was.

Just as I was about to demand he stop teasing, stop this ridiculous _drawing it out _business, he started languidly kissing my neck, mouthing the skin down until he came to my nipple, wrangling a gasp from my lips with little effort.

Another area (he seemed fond of discovering them) that was wildly over sensitive, and it wasn't long before I thought I was going to embarrass myself as my brain promptly short circuited.

I was reduced to a shallowly panting mess, trying to bite back my voice, as his mouth not only did wonderful, horrible things to me (kissing the skin on my shoulder now, moving up to nip along my neck - sucking there), but his hand also teased the sensitive flesh of my thigh, circling and causing my muscles to clench and quiver. Yet, he never once moved to the more obvious erogenous zone that was straining through my boxers.

"Perry," I whined urgently, giddy and maybe a tad frightened at my own whorishness. "This isn't going to be a fucking three hour romp if you keep doing that, so _get on with it_ already," I complained, my breath catching a little when he cut me off with a kiss.

"Shut up, idiot," he said simply; smugly, his voice betraying only the barest hint of strain, still close enough that his lips brushed mine tantalizingly. It was plain to me that he was enjoying this employment of shameless torture.

Pissy at how helplessly I was turned on, and how much he obviously knew it, I kissed him fiercely to distract him, as I pushed my weight against him until he fell back and I was able to straddle his waist. I tore impatiently at his belt, fumbling with the zipper, while moving to leave sloppy marks with my teeth and tongue on his neck, possessively thinking it was my turn to mark him.

With a few desperate pulls, I attempted to get his pants partly out of the way, and he at least helped with that.

And then there were his boxers, the last barrier, and I hesitated. I must have been hesitating for longer than I thought, because Perry half sat up and looked at me meaningfully.

"Are you sure you want to-"

"Yes! I'm sure, just help me," I hooked my finger under his waistband, but his hands caught mine.

"I'll do yours, you do mine," he mumbled, and I smiled gratefully.

What ensued was a comical struggle, filled with gasps, sharp laughter and strangled moans, as we each tried to maneuver the other's underwear off. Arms got tangled, and after much loosing balance on my part, and slipping fingers, I was kneeling over him naked, and he was under me, with no more barriers between us.

I stared at him, nervousness making my hands hot and shaky, the rest of my body frozen. Perry stared back, waiting for me.

I wondered where he had acquired this iron patience, because I hadn't known him to be particularly tolerant with waiting, but then I supposed this was a different situation, and, I dared to think, I was different, too.

After an eternity of staring at him, I promptly decided, with an impulsive rush of courage, that slow and steady was fucking unreasonable, and the look of want smeared across his face was enough to make me lose all rational thought.

With a bit of frantic, non-existent fluidity, I lowered my hips onto his, groaning at the delicious friction, holding myself up shakily with my arms. I was quick to establish a rhythm, my eyes fluttering as I rutted against him, all instinct and what felt good. His hands tugged at my hips to help me, his breath loud in my ear, and suddenly I wasn't able to do anything but pant into his neck.

I realized he was speaking, through the haze of my frenzied grinding. "-Harry."

I had no time to process what he'd said before he had flipped us over, looming over me. His breathing was labored, eyes murky and clouded and he looked like some kind of stunning sex god. All I wanted was to get back to where we were, fast.

"Perry," I'm ashamed to say his name was barely discernable over my disgruntled moan. It was pathetic, really, that I couldn't stop my body from trembling.

"Yes, Harry," he seemed to coo, leaning down to kiss me, slowly and thoroughly, sticky and wet.

Frustrated, I attempted to pull his hips down into mine, still mid-kiss, but he wouldn't let me. When I tried to wrestle him underneath me again, he responded by pulling me up onto his lap.

"Cool your jets," he said, licking my neck. When his lips pressed at my (madly beating) pulse point, I could feel the curve of his self-satisfied grin.

It was my turn to have some sort of conniption if he didn't give me what I wanted.

"Hurry up and touch me," I demanded, all sense of propriety and pride out the window. If I had to relinquish control, then I wanted him to _do _something. I spread my legs and pressed as close to him as I could get, straddling his thighs, wrapping my arms tightly around his shoulders and squishing him so there was almost no room for breathing. My hips moved mindlessly, trying to get any friction.

"I already am," I could hear the smirk in his voice, as his hands moved to hold my hips steady.

I sneered, huffing in effort. He had pushed me back, depriving me of hot solid skin to skin contact, and was kissing along my sternum now, one hand rubbing at a hardened nipple, but I was starting to slip into desperate frenzy, the shivery feeling becoming overwhelming and building up in my body unbearably.

Not to mention it was plain embarrassing, from the way the moans issued from my throat, loud and unhinged, and the way my body twitched, sensory impulses overwhelming me down to my fingertips.

How he could stand to take things one step at a time now, I hadn't a clue. His cheeks were flushed, his breathing strained, and his body obviously overheated. I suddenly envied the ease of Hollywood sex scenes - how the couples just fell into bed, and from then on passion absolutely took over and there was nothing awkward or unsure about it at all.

I wouldn't have minded some Hollywood ease at the moment, especially with the way I thought I was due to burst out of my skin at any moment.

Finally I groaned, "Please," and I jerked his wrist to where I wanted it. He brushed me almost gently, and just as I was preparing for more, the contact disappeared. I wanted to scream and snarl but all I could manage was a note that sounded peculiarly like a plead.

It was past the point where I was trying to be cute about this whole begging thing that he was obviously delighting in, and a needy moan erupted from my throat as I tried to rub, tried to push up erratically, my hands groping futilely, clawing at Perry to move with me. When that failed, I tried to help myself, but he quickly snatched my wrists away. He chuckled softly, and my fingers curled tightly.

Now I couldn't even employ my last ditch effort to touch him and drive him as crazy as I was, because of the snare he had my wrists in. I wanted to scream, and unfortunately, not in climax.

"Perry - this isn't very nice- stop teasing, oh God, stop teasing, stop fucking _teasing_-"

"Okay," Perry relented, a laugh in his voice (which was satisfyingly breathy, I noted). His hand finally snaked down to wrap around me, blissfully hot and tight and _oh_.

My muscles tensed and I arched, shaking, but I was so _wanting_ that it didn't matter. My nails dug into his back, my head lolling against his shoulder and neck, unable to hold myself up, a small part of me not wanting him to see my face. Any sense of control I may have had was completely gone, and I couldn't hold anything back.

I realized I'd relinquished everything to him in this moment, and it was the trust I gave him, the absolute surrender that felt just as amazing as the physical part. It felt good, for once, to be able to lose myself, knowing it was Perry and feeling safe, feeling wonderful, feeling like I could rule the fucking world.

"Oh, ah, Perry, mm," I think I was trying to tell him something, but the words wouldn't cooperate with me.

I shoved into his grip, breathing so hard that I even drooled on his shoulder like a slutty little porn star. My legs spread wider (again, reminiscent of x-rated raunchy marathons of love), and I was bracing myself against him, pushing and twisting so desperately, that I wasn't even sure how he wasn't toppling over in the onslaught.

As if in answer to my scrambled thoughts, his free arm wrapped around me to steady me. We were so close, and I could feel him, his chest heaving against mine, his own desire pressing against me, everything hot and slick.

I closed my eyes, and all I could understand was Perry, nothing but him, voice, breath, body, feel, touch, scent. I thought there was something wrong, really, how intense this was, but then I supposed it was all Perry's fault. His fault too, that I kept panting his name brokenly, so it sounded like I was singing the praise of a _pear_.

"You alright there?" Perry asked amusedly, voice astronomically smug, and equally as infuriating.

"Fffmmmgh," was all I could manage in response. He turned his face to me, grinning even with his red cheeks and blown pupils, and I didn't hesitate to lift my chin and meet his lips.

"S'alright, I've got you," he said softly after, to which I nodded senselessly, a groan escaping my parted lips.

Not once did I have to ask him to go faster, in fact, he was bringing me off almost too fast, (fast enough I couldn't even think about reciprocating the favor) and it wasn't long before I choked out a sob as I came, shuddering and gasping, holding onto him hard enough to bruise.

I didn't just see stars, I saw the entire fucking universe.

Feeling dizzyingly heavy, I slumped against him, breathing harshly. He laughed quietly again, still hell bent on causing sensory overload, as he stroked my stomach. I shivered, my skin almost painfully oversensitive, and I couldn't help the drag of contentment from my lips.

Lost, as I was, in my own personal little paradise, I didn't quite register the movement of his arm or his quickened breathing until he groaned a little. My cheeks became hot again and I blinked, lifting myself away from his half embrace. I'd _forgotten_.

"Perry," again, the awkward desire in my voice was more embarrassing than my satisfyingly debauched state. I wrapped my hand around his, and he relented to my hold.

Somewhere in between the sloppy kisses, which barely constituted as kisses anyway, and touching him so intimately, hearing his gooey sounds as _I_ brought him off, I decided that I never, ever wanted to give this up.

He came with a breathless groan, a syllable of my name on his tongue, and I felt ridiculously proud.

I told him as much, and he shook his head tiredly, smiling minutely. "Moron."

I also decided that these smiles of his couldn't be shown to anyone else.

"Perry," I was hugging him tightly, almost a little too tight, my chin resting on his shoulder. "I think, if you stay here, I'll be able to sleep."

"We wouldn't want to mess with your beauty sleep," he scoffed, back to sarcasm and rough edges with ease.

"No," I agreed, grinning, unable to help myself.

After a moment of just being close, I shivered a little at the cool air on my sweat slicked skin, and my grip tightened around him.

I told him slowly and deliberately that I didn't want to sleep just _yet_.

Later, dozy and on the verge of sleep and (finally) entangled peacefully with Perry, I tried to figure out how I'd come to be so incorrigibly, and one hundred percent Perry-gay. I would be more inclined to feel stupid were I not so content.

"You really should thank the psycho woman," I mumbled musingly, voice coarse with sleep and utter exhaustion. "Without her, we'd be stuck in the Cheap Trick problem."

"Harry, that's fucked up, idiot," he drawled, snorting softly.

"Yes, I know," I responded, my voice unaccountably mushy.

In the morning I woke up in stifling heat, and found one of my arms laying claim to Perry's belly in a decidedly possessive manner. I rolled over until I was practically on top of him, overly aware of my little morning problem. Taking a deep breath, I yelled his name as loud as I could, and he startled awake with a cuss.

"Jesus Christ, Harry, what the fu-"

"I'm all hot and bothered," I cut him off, grinning lopsidedly. I maneuvered myself until I was straddling his abdomen, searching his face for any sign that he didn't want me where I was.

As it turns out, I didn't find any.

So that, really, is the end, or rather, beginning of it all. Having to upkeep my sudden and newfound whorish streak, I was making demands on him nearly every night, during the day, God, just whenever I wanted to. And I did want.

It got to the point where I only had to say his name, and he would look at me sharply, and depending on his mood, would either comply or tell me to control myself, because, for fuck's sake, we were crouched behind a bush spying on some old geezer, or in a public park and there were kids around.

Mostly, I was insatiable, and he was very happy to attempt to sate. Of course, I learnt more about him, and his body in the next couple of months that I'd ever known about anyone. Sometimes I just sat down and thought about how indescribably happy I was. It was the type of feeling that made me want to dance to George Michael or something, and besides the fact that it's fucking George Michael, I don't dance.

With time, I learnt that his delayed gratification mantra _was_ really just a load of bull. I was quickly discovering that he disliked squirming in need as much as I did, but also that he forced himself to go slow for all my 'firsts.' The first time he'd touched me, kissed me for real, for instance, he'd been afraid of scaring me off, of going too fast. It was the only reason he insisted on taking things slow, even if he'd cleverly masked it behind torture.

The proof was in that morning after, beginning with my tentative straddling and ending in a tangle of sweaty limbs. He'd taken over fast and driven us both to completion, so quickly that I would have been embarrassed had it been anyone but him.

Though the first time we'd had actual sex, he'd been nothing but safe and careful, with all the condoms to fuck our brains out for a century, and enough lube to last just as long, too. Even though I'd been the one who eventually broke under the strain of extreme horniness, he'd constantly needed my reassurance that it was what I wanted, of course, not that he'd voiced it in any amount of frilly words, but it was in his actions and his insults all the same.

I had been admittedly tense, muscles coiled as though I were preparing for a getaway, lips pressed in a thin line. Just his fingers, lazily circling and gently prodding, slicked up to high heaven with slippery lube, had me fisting the sheets and breathing raggedly, because it hurt, and it was weird.

He'd kissed me hard, and transparent distraction though it was, it helped force my mind to other things, especially when he started stroking me into gooey, pliable jelly. I was so finely distracted that the next thing I registered was him, his heat pushing into me.

I remember making so many embarrassing noises, with my fingers scratching and holding him with the Herculean strength that sex seemed to grant me. He barely moved at all, and I could tell it was difficult for him. I squirmed momentarily, holding my breath and trying to relax, but I was still tense and stiff, uncomfortable despite his best efforts, holding on to one last tiny piece of resistance.

Perry's version of soothing was maybe harsher than the cooing Harlequin romance cut outs, but it was still there in his insistences that I fucking _breathe. _When he'd gruffly said "S'alright, I've got you," I remember letting go completely, letting him in. It was that simple, that was all it took.

I don't want to get too steeped in the art of cheese-ballin' it, but it really was amazing, amazing in a way that I know would land me on Oprah if I wrote a book about it (which, sadly, I could).

After I'd gotten through the initial discomfort, the gasping stops and reaching, he'd pulled me up into his lap, just like our first time, to let me control everything.

It doesn't matter that I'd given up half way through, drawing him back with me in a flop, panting for him to _please oh God hurry up_ because I could only manage a slow pace, because I couldn't stop my legs from shaking, couldn't quite conquer the convulsions of pleasure every time he hit at the right angle inside me.

It had been sweaty and glorious, and I want to say that it had been slow and sweet, but we were sooner trapped in a frantic rhythm, with my legs curled around his hips, everything hard, hard, hard.

Afterwards, it had been lazy kisses that tasted like reassurance and M&Ms, among the dirty and damp sheets. I felt like I was in some sappy, low budget movie scene, you know the kind, where a couple does something quirky while basking in the afterglow, and it's all incredibly adorable. Though, even despite that, I found that I didn't mind at all.

Perry didn't exactly have a way with words when it came to affection, but from then on he kept a small bowl of M&Ms near our bed. I'd like to say it was something kinky, but in actuality, I just liked to eat them after sex, and so he kept them within my reach.

He still grumbled and called me idiotic, but now I could reply with a kiss, or silence with one, or interrupt, and it was fucking sweet. Not to say that he didn't hold the same power over me; often my most epic rants and heartfelt temper tantrums were cut short with a well placed touch and gooey kiss.

Though even if we were in some petty fight that lasted for an hour, no matter what, he'd always kiss me back. Though of course, usually I was the one who caved, and he in turn acknowledged his own part in whatever tiff by not bugging me about being the first to give in.

I realized one day, as we got past round 10 on Nazi zombies together (something I'd never been able to do by myself) that I loved him.

The attack sex I'm bombarded him with during the game, and on the verge of round 13, surprised him a little.

Though his impassioned "idiot" told me the same thing my sudden assault told him. His arms held me tight and I didn't even care when he said, "We lost the game." I was, after all, too busy unbuckling his belt.

He later lectured me on my spontaneity concerning sex, and that maybe sometimes, just sometimes, I should consider opportune timing and fucking discretion. He was, of course, referring to the party we'd attended undercover, and how I had abruptly pulled him into a broom closet for cramped activities. I told him I couldn't help it, because some kid had been pawing at him the entire evening with his perfectly coiffed hair and grabby hands.

I silently mourned my unruly hair, and he rolled his eyes at me.

"As if you had to fucking worry about it."

I smiled, not even bothered by the incredibly girly butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach.

The surprise sex I promptly initiated by tackling him didn't surprise him at all.

**

* * *

**

A.N

I think I have to physically restrain myself from tinkering with this any longer, so I'm posting it now. I got to say, I agonized over the sex scene(s). Honestly, to the point I sent it to my straight guy friend to beta/criticize it for me, hoping he could help make it less…ridiculously retarded. -_agonized sigh_- Anyway, I hope it turned out alright! And the fluff, dear God, I hope no one choked.

Also, sorry it took so long! See the above as explanation. A very Happy New Year's to you, and please do leave comments! This was the final part, and I hope everyone had a fun ride with me and my craziness! Much love to you all!

[also;also; I'm talking WaW Nazi Zombies, which seems harder than Black Ops, if only because Black Ops improved the size of the map, and added all those new features, if that means anything to you. Also, I'm a spaz, and I honestly could not get past round 10 on my own, hell, I could barely work my way there. So, if you're thinking Harry should be a better gamer, just blame me! Heh.]

Kiss Kiss,  
Kyla


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